The world is cool,
The moon shines through the window,
Under the candle, who has a hairpin and a phoenix?
The past is a blur,
In the boudoir, Luo Shang wears eyebrows and makes up.
Falling red tears pass through sparse poplar trees,
The fragrance of tea lingers on your fingertips for hundreds of years.
Xue Tao's small seal script leaves half a page.
The fleeting years are lightly covered by dust, but I can hear the echo of spring in my dreams.